


Away on an Upward Drift

by furloughday, i_know_its_0ver, jad, marguerite_26, myashke, PlaneJane, sweetestel, winterstorrm



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Complete, M/M, Magic Revealed, Minor Character Death, Romance, Torture, chain fic, pre-s4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-07
Updated: 2012-09-07
Packaged: 2017-11-13 17:40:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/506048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/furloughday/pseuds/furloughday, https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_know_its_0ver/pseuds/i_know_its_0ver, https://archiveofourown.org/users/jad/pseuds/jad, https://archiveofourown.org/users/marguerite_26/pseuds/marguerite_26, https://archiveofourown.org/users/myashke/pseuds/myashke, https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlaneJane/pseuds/PlaneJane, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetestel/pseuds/sweetestel, https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterstorrm/pseuds/winterstorrm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin's life for Arthur's, a decision easily made by Uther when Morgause forces him to choose; Arthur disagrees. [aka The Great Merlin Chain Fic]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Away on an Upward Drift

**Author's Note:**

> Otherwise known as The Great Merlin Chain Fic. Originally posted on [ruffle's livejournal](http://rufflefeather.livejournal.com), this fic ended up so amazing (with so many awesome writers) I finally got off my lazy arse and decided to host it up here. If for some reason the co-author links do not work, here is a list of all the authors (by their lj name) in order of appearance: rufflefeather / winterstorrm / lolafeist / ella_bane / marguerite_26 / sweetestel / planejane / i_know_its_0ver / furloughday / jad / myashke.
> 
> Many thanks to [maybelater__](http://maybelater__.livejournal.com) for betaing and the title!

**Away on an Upward Drift**

  


o O o

 

Above, there is a bird in the sky. It circles away on an upward drift, wings outstretched and unmoving.

  Below, a castle is built high and wide. In it, a beautiful man sleeps on and on. His hair is blond and a little too long, uneven peaks almost touching his closed eyelids. If his eyes were open, they would be blue. As the sun travels its path, his skin pales and darkens with the moving light. The bed the man sleeps in is large, maybe one of the largest this side of the castle. Hangings of dark red brocade frame the bed and deepen the shadows underneath his eyes. The pillows are made of a soft, shiny material; the covers are heavy and pulled taut over his body as if he hasn’t moved in a long time.   

The sleeping man lies very still, the only sign of life flowing through his veins, throbbing softly in his neck. His breathing is so shallow it is unnoticeable. His eyelids do not flutter, his lips do not move. He may not even dream: his mind as deep and dark as the space between his eyes and their lids.

  There is another man in the room. He sits on a chair next to the bed, watching its occupant sleep. His hair is dark, his frame is thin. His eyes are open and blue, never leaving the sleeping face. His mouth is full and redder than would be expected of a man’s. There is an unmistakable deep-set worry drawing his face into a tight mask, taking away from the beauty of his cheekbones and ears. It is almost more than worry; it is almost pain. If there was someone else in the room, they would find it hard to regard him for very long, so desperate he looks. But there is no one else. The two men are alone, one so deeply unconscious, the other deeply lonely.   

The sleeping man’s hand rests on top of the bed covers. The sitting man’s hand rests there too, palm flat, fingers spread wide, close, but not touching the other. His lips are moving, but no sound comes out. And every once in a while, his eyes flash golden. When this happens, the air in the room seems to thicken as if the sunlight itself gains substance and congeals like honey. This is not the effect the man hopes for, because every time he looks a little more forlorn. It turns inwards, stilling his already minimal movements, evening out his breathing. Only his eyes will dart over the features relaxed in sleep. Every time nothing changes, it takes longer for the man to start the soundless movements of his mouth.

* * *

  A distant sound draws his attention away from the figure in the bed:  a door slams, swiftly followed by footsteps on stairs in the corridor outside, and a loud rap on the door finally jolts Merlin out of his daze.  Someone has come.

  “Enter,” he instructs, standing and moving away from the bed, away from Arthur.  

The door swings open and Sir Leon strides in, disheveled and with an air of desperation about him.  “Merlin, the king requires your presence in the Great Hall.  I’m to sit with Arthur.”  

Merlin nods, approaching the bed and Arthur’s sleeping form, running the back of his hand along Arthur’s cheekbone.  He knows what is to be done now.  He knows this is the last time he will see Arthur.  “Goodbye, Arthur,” he whispers.  “Remember me.”  Uncaring that Leon is watching, he replaces his hand with his lips and whispers so low no one but Arthur, had he been awake, could hear: “I love you.”  Arthur’s been unconscious for weeks; Merlin can’t even remember the last thing they said to one another before this happened.  

He turns and smiles at Leon.  “Look after him, Leon,” he says sadly.   

Leon forces a smile, and Merlin knows that Leon is aware of Merlin’s fate.   

Merlin moves towards the door but Leon blocks him, pulling him into a fierce hug, the words thick in his throat as he says, “Be careful.”  

Merlin slides from Leon’s embrace and from the room without looking back.

  He reaches the Great Hall and the guard parts and opens the doors for him to enter.  He walks slowly towards the King, bowing when he reaches him, noting the strain around his eyes and the tautness around his mouth.   

Aside from the guard and the King, the only other people in the room are Gaius and a hooded figure that Merlin knows to be Morgause.

  “You wished to see me, Sire?” he asks, shooting a glance at Morgause who smirks back at him.

  Uther looks at Gaius, who closes his eyes, and Merlin knows he’s about to be fed to the wolves; that even Gaius’ long friendship with Uther cannot save him now.  Merlin knows there’s no other choice.  He has to go with her so that Arthur may live.

  “He’s all yours,” Uther says, not even looking at Merlin as he seals Merlin’s fate.  Morgause steps forward, her eyes burning gold, and Merlin feels the magical bonds encasing his limbs.  He falls to his knees wordlessly, knowing arguing is futile, all that matters is Arthur.  “Now, take your enchantment off my son.”  

Morgause smiles coldly, her eyes burning gold again. “It is done.  His future is worthless now without the boy Merlin by his side. Camelot will fall and the future that was destined will crumble.”  She steps forward and curls a hand around Merlin’s shoulder.  “Enjoy the calm before the storm, Uther Pendragon,” she sneers. Her grip on Merlin’s shoulder tightens as the room around them disappears.  

Within moments they’re somewhere else, somewhere lit with candles and warmed by a fire in the hearth.  He’s still on his knees when Morgause shoves him and he topples onto his side.

  “It was you all along,” she says furiously.  “Who would have thought that Merlin the serving boy would turn out to be Emrys, the most powerful sorcerer for centuries?  Well, Emrys, that power is mine now.”   

Before Merlin realises what’s going on, she’s kneeling beside him, and something cold and metallic clips around his neck.  Merlin gasps as he feels his magic fizzle and fade.  

* * *

The power will never be hers.  It can’t be.  Merlin tries to explain this to her: that he can never be turned against Camelot, that he will die before he forfeits his magic to her dark intentions.  But every time he opens his mouth, his voice catches as his magic wars with the heavy iron at his throat.  He can’t be put down this easily.  He won’t.

  “You’re mine now,” Morgause says, her voice mild and silky as she turns him over with her foot.  She grinds her sharp heel into his ribs and he cries out, grasping at it sloppily.  His limbs feel sluggish, his fingers clumsy and weak. He tries to twist away from her and can’t.  The collar, hardly thicker than a finger, feels like a vice even as it hangs loosely.  It interferes with his very nerves; he feels like his whole body has gone to pins and needles.  

“What a blessing that you’ve lived this long without feeling the kiss of cold iron.  If you stop fighting it, you’ll feel better faster.”  Morgause releases the pressure at his ribs and looks down at him, her soft, flushed lips pursed with curiosity.  

Merlin blinks in a dizzy flutter, his breath hoarse and heavy.  When he reaches, he can almost focus his mind, if not his magic.  

With Arthur safe back in Camelot, he can afford to reflect on his future.  He allows himself to feel the heavy knot of fear in his gut, and, more than that, the cold swell of grief.  The notion of dying before Arthur, dying for Arthur, was always simple.  Acceptable.  Inevitable.  

The idea of an existence without Arthur steals his breath away and grinds at his resolve.   

When Morgause sinks to straddle his chest, her heavy velvet robes pool around him like thick shadows.  

“Now, pet,” she murmurs, cupping his cheek and thumbing across his lashes. “Don’t cry.”  

Her touch is cool and soothing.  He missed simple touch, craved it all those long weeks as Arthur slept silent and still.  Arthur always centered him, always placed a hand on his arm, a kiss at his throat, a strong grip at his shoulder, a breath at his ear.  Merlin has been so helpless, unable to do anything to save Arthur until now.  

He crumbles as she gentles him, and while part of him knows this is her magic, that she’s hurting him and giving him peace in one breath to draw him into her dark embrace, he still sobs silently.  She reeks of magic and spices and fresh sap.  It’s horrifically familiar—a sense of home, of belonging; soft arms like Morgana’s, like his mother’s.  

“No,” he exhales, squeezing his eyes shut.  These are her illusions.  This is her game.  

She draws him into her arms and cradles him through his loose-limbed pain until it finally begins to cease, leaving him empty and tired, as if he’s been the one in a bed for weeks on end, wasting away and hollowed-out.

  

* * *

  He lets Morgause rock him and tries to ignore the slow burning rise of magic under his skin, giving himself permission to rest for just a while. He's so tired. She strokes his hair and he sighs helplessly.  

Her lips are dry as they move along his forehead. She speaks enchantments he's never heard of, but he doesn't care because they offer forgiveness. His magic rattles his bones, demands his attention. _Arthur_ , it says.  

Morgause's lips are on his cheekbone. She's humming lullabies his mother once did and the promise of hearth and home and unbridled _magic_ overwhelm him. He won't have to hide anymore. Not with her. Never with her. Together they can –

  "There," she whispers. "That's right, _Emrys_ , there now. I will give you all that and more. But first, you will tell me everything I want to know about Arthur Pendragon."

  It's the wrong thing to say. Fear for Arthur, bright and sharp, cuts through her paltry illusion. He cries out when the pain that radiates in icy waves from the collar comes back. With it comes a clarity that his time at Arthur's bedside failed to give him.

  He opens his eyes and stares up at her. "You lied," he rasps. "You fear Arthur's destiny. You fear him even though I'm _not by his side._ "

  "But you will be," a new voice says. It's high and wavering and wholly wrong. "Forever and ever."

  "Sister," Morgause hisses, shoving Merlin out of her arms. His head bounces on the hard floor and he sees Morgana, with wild hair and wild eyes. "Go back to bed." Morgause reaches for her.  

Morgana is too quick. She kneels next to Merlin and snatches up his hand, presses it to her heart. "Merlin. You must tell Arthur I love him." She's thinner than he's ever seen her. "Promise me!"

  Merlin licks his lips and stares past her at Morgause, who is as still as a rabbit ready to bolt. "I'm your prisoner," Merlin says. "I can't tell Arthur anything."  

Morgana's eyes glow golden and a crushing weight descends upon his chest. "I'm _not lying_! I have seen, I know the truth. Now promise me!"  

He struggles for breath but manages a strangled "I promise." The weight is gone and Morgana leaves as she came in: silently and suddenly.  

Merlin draws in great gulps of air as Morgause sits next to him. His limbs are heavy and his body _hurts_. His magic is beating in time with his heart, pulsing ever stronger. The iron around his neck changes from ice to heat.

  "I will escape you," he says. It's almost a question.  

She nods, but her expression reveals nothing.

  "You believe this."  

"Morgana's gifts do not lie."  

"She's mad."

  

* * *

  Morgause hums, a wistful smile on her face. “And so much more powerful for it.”  

She leans over Merlin and her hair tickles his cheek. He pulls away as if he’s been burned and his head hits the stone floor with a crack and a jolt of pain. It’s real, so much more real than whatever it was Morgause made him feel, and he’s tempted to do it again.  

  “So, you will find a way to return to your beloved prince.” Morgause’s hand hovers above the iron collar and she stares into his eyes as if lost in thought. “I know better than to try to change that. The question is: what condition you will be in when that happens?”  

He flinches as her hands clasp his shoulders and draw him up into an embrace.  It’s worse than pain, these false emotions, the pleasure that is not his own that has no place inside of him being forced into his veins. _Not real, not real_ he chants to himself over and over until the lull of Morgause’s pretty words and the sleepy, warm comfort of arms that have morphed into something familiar and strong finally drags him under and he loses himself again.  

There are days of this torture and deceit, maybe even weeks. It’s a blur of pain and weakness and the sticky black feel of guilt as he opens his eyes and remembers that he has no defense for Morgause’s magic. He wakes confused and hungry, trying to count the days but reality is slipping away from him. Hope is the only thing keeping him sane. He doesn’t remember spilling any secrets, only the angry flash in Morgause’s eyes as he refuses her and the crack of his jaw as she hits him.

  Merlin’s in a cell, scratching a line in the stone to mark his fourth sunrise, when Morgana enters.

  She stumbles bare foot along the uneven stone. She falls to her knees at his side. “When Arthur dies, you will weep. You’ll hold his cold body so tightly his armour will bruise your chest and his blood will stain your skin.”  

All the air leaves Merlin’s lungs in a _whoosh_ and he’s left gasping. “So he is to die first?”  

“Yes and no.” Morgana looks away, her pale eyes wide, flickering back and forth as if seeing something no one else can. “A thousand times over, both.”

  She rises and smiles like it’s an apology. Merlin snatches her wrist, ready to demand more but a throat clears in warning on the other side of the cell and he lets go.  

“It’s cruel isn’t it?” Morgause steps out of a shadowed corner and trails a finger along Morgana’s shoulder. “The certainty of her words. So comforting. So visceral.”  

Morgana giggles at that and kisses Morgause’s mouth, light and lingering.  

Morgause’s eyes are still on Merlin as she whispers into Morgana’s lips, “Everything she says is too much and not enough by half.”  

Morgause’s face is soft for a moment as she watches Morgana slip out of the room. When she turns to face Merlin it’s hardened to something ugly. “Your prince has set off in search of you.”  

She bends low to whispers in his ear. “Do you think it is here, on the filthy floor of this dungeon, that Arthur’s blood and your tears will be spilt as Morgana promised?” 

* * *

Above, there is a bird in the sky. It circles away on an upward drift, wings outstretched and unmoving. Below, a castle is built high and wide. In it, a beautiful man sleeps on and on. When in the Great Hall two shapes disappear in a whirlwind, some start mourning the loss of Emrys. The world shifts, magic clicking back into place.

The man wakes up from his dreamless sleep. His fingers stretch on the bed covers, reaching out for something – _someone?_ – of their own accord. His eyelids flicker, a frown appears on his brow, sweeping away the unnatural peace on his face.

He startles awake and sits up in bed, making the tall man with broad shoulders and wild hair sitting next to him jump to his feet.

“Sire!”

Arthur raises his hand to silence Leon, his eyes erratically scanning his surroundings. A weight surges upon his chest, his throat tightens and he feels it in the heavy atmosphere, in the way part of Leon seems relieved and in the despondent look on his face. Something went wrong, he knows it.  
  
“What happened?” he means to say, but his voice is too raw, his mouth too dry and his chest aches as if he’s forgotten how to breathe. He’s barely coughing when a cup of water appears in front of his eyes. Large hands help him hold the cup as he gulps its water. The burn in his throat is slowly easing when he notices that the hands aren’t a servant’s, and suddenly the room seems too big, too wide, too empty, because it’s empty, empty of any servant, empty of _Merlin_.

The knot in his stomach tightens and every last bit of his soul whispers to him, _something has gone wrong._

“Where’s Merlin?” he asks, not caring the slightest that a prince shouldn’t have this kind of worries. The expression on Leon’s face gives him a confirmation he doesn’t need. He jumps out of bed, walks out of the room, ignoring the shiver running up his spine when he runs barefoot in the corridors.

“Arthur!” his father calls, and Arthur ends up in his embrace without knowing what happens. He sees Gaius’ figure at the end of the corridor, sees the weight he seems to be carrying on his shoulders, the grave features on his face. He hears his father’s words in a blur, barely feels the taps on his back.

“Father, what’s the matter?” he asks, as Uther steps back to look at him, still holding him by the shoulders.

“Nothing, my son. Everything is as it should be,” his father smiles, or tries to; it still is the closest thing to a smile Arthur has seen on the King’s face and Uther seems _relieved_.

“What happened?”

“You won’t have to worry about this anymore,” a vague answer after another one and the hole inside Arthur’s chest only grows bigger.

“Where’s Merlin?” he asks before he even thinks. Uther’s face hardens suddenly. Arthur shivers more and more and can hardly control the tremble in his arms. It must be from the cold, he thinks, it has to be; he can’t tremble from fear under his father’s eyes, he _can’t._

“Merlin is gone, Sire.”

Gaius’ voice pierces through the mist surrounding Arthur. He blinks and freezes for a moment, before turning around, walking past Leon without even noticing him, without hearing Uther’s call, without feeling the cold stones below his feet. He just walks towards his room where he’ll put his boots and his armor on, take his sword, and then find someone to tell him what exactly happened to Merlin and what there is to do to have him back.

* * *

It’s no precedent for Arthur to disobey his father.  Uther’s words ring out: “I forbid you. I forbid you!” The veins throbbing at his throat as he pounds his fist.  

Only Leon follows.  No one stops them and Arthur sees the burning stain of defeat bleeding across his father’s face.  He cannot burn an entire mutinous army for treason, nor will he disown his son: Arthur is all he has left.  Yet, in Uther’s righteous fury, Arthur sees a glint of hope and he does not need the words to know, as his father falls back to his throne, that Uther has gifted him his reluctant, silent blessing.  

“I will return, Sire.  All will be well.  You will see.”  Arthur has to believe the words even where no one else will, or everything is already ruined.    
They ride in haste, without looking back.

“They disappeared before our eyes, Sire.  Who knows where the witch took him.”

“I know how to find him, Sir Leon.  I know it as I’ve always known it but would not open my eyes to see.”  Arthur places his gloved hand across his heart and looks up into the sky.  “Merlin is here, he is everywhere.”  Leaning forward, placing his cheek to the damp throbbing hide beneath the mane of his charger, Arthur whispers, “And you know it, too.” Arthur’s smile is weary, still weakened from Morgause’s enchantment.  

 Leon looks over, the willingness to trust, to follow Arthur paramount in his expression; the confusion and doubt buried in a frown as he shifts his gaze to the sky, perhaps hoping for the same inspiration.  

They travel four long days, heading west, navigating old trails with new purpose.  Arthur trusts his instincts, not wavering from his purpose.  Leon worries that their supplies will not endure.  Arthur snares a rabbit and halves their rations.

  On the fourth night they settle to camp in the shelter of a forest, in a shallow cave on a bed of fresh ferns. With his back pressed close, Leon’s steady breaths lull Arthur into a dreamful sleep. Merlin comes to him in his slumber, frail and fading, croaking a plea in a language Arthur does not understand.  

After a fitful night, Arthur awakes with the sunrise, his view eclipsed by ominous whispers of red silk.  

  “Morgause!”

  “We’ve been waiting, Arthur Pendragon.”  

Arthur is on his feet in a heartbeat, Leon swiftly following.  

  Morgause: always on the offensive, always leading the way into battle.  Arthur knew all along she would not wait.  

* * *

  “I knew you would not disappoint me,” she says, her grin feral. She is alone and holds no weapon, though Arthur knows her well enough by now to know she needs none.  

Leon steps forward to shield him but Arthur raises a hand to halt him. If Morgause truly wanted them dead, she would have wasted no time. She is not here for his life.  

“What have you done with Merlin?” Arthur demands, masking his fear with a burning anger. It is the only emotion he will allow himself to feel in front of her; he will not permit her to triumph in his pain.

  “I will take you to him,” Morgause replies, lips curling into a sweet smile that Arthur has learned never to believe. She holds out a hand in offering.  

“What reason do I have to trust you?” Arthur asks through gritted teeth and her smile only grows more delighted.

  “None at all. But you have no other choice; the strength of all your armies could not rescue Merlin now. He is in a place that can only be found by those who know where to find it. You could search forever in vain, or you could give yourself over to me and I will take you to him now.” She waits for the full weight of her words to sink in, watching Arthur with a hint of amusement.  

  “How do I know Merlin is safe?” Arthur demands, desperately seeking assurances which he knows cannot be trusted. Whatever honor he once believed Morgause to posses was lost the moment she dared to lay her hands on Merlin.    

“If you will not trust me then trust your dreams, Arthur. You do not have your sister’s talents, but your visions do not lie. You have seen him for yourself.”  

Arthur feels his stomach lurch, half-remembered images floating before his eyes. He can see Merlin, weak and in pain, pleading and writhing. A harsh cry tears itself from Arthur’s throat before he can hold it back.

  “Witch!” he yells, leaping forward, freeing his sword from its sheath with practiced speed. He is on her in a second, sharp blade pressed against her pale throat.  

Morgause makes no move to stop him, her eyes roaming over Arthur’s face, drinking in his pain.  

“He suffers for you, Arthur,” she taunts, words a ghosted whisper against his cheek. Arthur can feel every fiber of his being calling out for her blood, goading him to action. It would be so easy to end it all here, to ensure Camelot’s safety and his father’s life.

  It would be so satisfying, but Arthur cannot do it. She is his only link to Merlin, whose life is more precious than any other. Though he does not trust her, he knows her words to be true. For days now he has felt Merlin’s presence like a physical force: so close, and yet always out of reach. Without her help, he knows he will search forever, because he will never allow himself to give up.  

He lowers his blade reluctantly and steps away, letting his eyes convey the fury raging in his blood. She only smirks and straightens her cloak.  “I will take that as your answer,” she says.

 

* * *

 When Merlin wakes, it is to the sound of a familiar voice. It's brash and commanding. He'd know that voice anywhere.  

He can't, however, move. Every part of him is sore. He’s curled into the ground and there's the problem of the collar; how moving physically is one thing, but how every time he thinks of Arthur he dips under again. Now, with Arthur near, it is apparent. It's like their twin magics have been calling out to one another and they probably have been since the start, since he traipsed into Camelot two years before, borders and death penalty be damned.

  How has he not noticed until now? He wonders this and lies still against the cold stone of the cell floor, not daring to even hope. He needs to be conscious if he's going to get Arthur out of this alive.  

When he wakes up next, he's being maneuvered into a sitting position. He's then hoisted, an arm flopped around Arthur's neck.  

Arthur. Merlin is aware enough to know something's wrong, something's off.  

And when he opens his eyes he sees why: it's not Arthur, but Sir Leon who's got him.

  "What."

  "We've come to free you," Sir Leon says, voice at a normal level, which makes Merlin worry more than anything thus far.  

"You have to get him out of here," Merlin says. He grasps at Leon's shoulder and then trips over his own feet. "Morgause."

  It's an effort to stay awake. There's faint evening light coming in from the small slit of a window. What day is it? When was the last time he ate? Sir Leon leans Merlin up against the stone wall. He reaches to Merlin's neck, but Merlin flinches and almost falls.

  "Don't try, it's-"  

"Sorcery," Sir Leon breathes. His hand stops, inches from the iron.

  "She's got Morgana," Merlin says. His head lolls back against the stone.  

Sir Leon recovers admirably, but the shock is clear on his hairy face. Morgana. Merlin was surprised at first, too, just after relief, followed quick by a boundless dread.

  "We've got to get," Merlin mumbles against Leon's shoulder.

  "No, I'm to take you out of the castle." Leon grabs him around the back, and pulls him to the doorway of the cell.

  "No, but Arth-"  Sir Leon has him before he can crumple to the floor. If they ever get out of here, Merlin thinks deliriously, he will clean a hundred pairs of the man's boots, two, even. 

 "There's little time."  

Sir Leon is the largest of the knights, and Merlin is thin and weak against him. Once they make it into the long hall, Merlin can hear the echo of Arthur's voice. It is nearby, coming out of a chamber. He feels a lurch of despair, how he's defenseless in all the ways that count. He'll go to Arthur, but then what?  

And it is simple for Leon to drag him down the darkened hallway, in the direction of safety, the opposite direction of fine.  

* * *

Merlin would fight him, if he possessed the strength. But he is weak, cold and hungry, and the collar around his neck is _so heavy_. His magic does not go so easily; it churns inside of him, leaving him light-headed and nauseous. _Arthur_ , it chants. _Arthur. Arthur. Arthur._ The name becomes a litany, desperate and furious, and Merlin cries out, stumbling at Leon's side.

  Over the magic thrumming through him, Merlin can still hear Arthur's voice, resonating down the hall behind them. His magic reaches out to it, pulling him back even as Leon drags him forward.

  “Arthur,” he gasps out, echoing the staccato in his head. “Arthur. I must-”  

“You're delirious,” Leon tells him, readjusting Merlin's limp frame against his own. “Don't worry about Arthur; come.”  

His magic screams in protest and the iron scorches his throat, so cold it burns like dragonfire, choking him, dragging him back down to the ground.  

When Merlin opens his eyes Leon is beside him, holding Merlin's face in his hands, but his words are lost to Merlin, who now knows what he must do. The cold iron around his neck has trapped his magic, but it has not trapped his voice. Morgause only knows him as a sorcerer, as _Emrys_.  

She does not know him as a Dragonlord.  

Merlin swallows, closes his eyes and shuts away the world. He unlocks secrets buried deep inside of his mind, windows to his very soul, and when he speaks the sounds are barely more than whispers and yet ring out like shouts, alien and familiar, pleading and commanding. There is only one thing he knows of that can free him, aside from Morgause lifting the collar herself. And he needs to be free, needs to have his magic, because Leon is right: if Morgause has Arthur, then Merlin will do whatever she wants. He would bring the very stars crashing down upon the earth if it would spare Arthur, and Arthur would never forgive him that.  

When he opens his eyes again, Merlin sees trees reaching up to shake angry fingers at the sky. Leon picked him up and carried him out while he called, and now the wind encircles them, howling, and Merlin can already hear the whisper of wings on the air.  

It is a testament to Leon's bravery that he only blanches momentarily upon sight of the Great Dragon before setting Merlin down quickly and drawing his sword. Merlin reaches out, weakly grabbing a fistful of his breeches and shakes his head. “No,” he tells Leon. “Wait.”

  Kilgharrah stands in the shadow of the castle behind them, golden scales ochre in the low-light. Leon stands his ground, face set with grim determination, but obediently lowers his sword. Kilgharrah ignores him, craning high overhead to peer down at Merlin, eyes focusing on the iron collar and growling.    
  
 _You fool_ , he snarls. _You went willingly. I cannot help you._  
  
  “I granted you absolution,” Merlin reminds him. He can't make out his own voice over the rumbling of the dragon's breath, but he knows Kilgharrah hears him. “I spared you. You _must_ help me.”  

Kilgharrah bares his teeth as he moves forward and Leon, still standing over Merlin, raises his sword again. Merlin holds up a hand, pleading patience – they'll have time for explanations later – and Leon backs away, eyes uncertain and focused on the dragon.  

The heat of the fire in the dragon's breath warms his face as it stands over him and his magic stirs, the collar itching at his throat. Merlin struggles to sit up on his knees, bowing his head to expose the back of his neck. He can feel the hot breath of the inferno within, and when teeth meet iron the dragon screams, surging up and away, and suddenly Merlin can breathe again, the air rushing back into his lungs, aided by the frantic beat of wings.

  His magic swells within him, free and frantic and _furious_ ; Merlin staggers to his feet, once more a force to be reckoned with.  

When he looks up, Kilgharrah is twisting in agony on the ground, clawing at his jaw; a bright, silver scar marks the place the iron burned him.   

Merlin hesitates a moment, but the dragon roars in his head: _Go._

* * *

   “Forgive me,” he whispers as he turns to Leon, muscles already coiling to run. He holds up his hand and, with the briefest of thoughts, the knight’s eyes fall closed. Merlin pushes out with his magic, the stretching, free expansion of it the sweetest relief he’s ever felt, and sends Leon’s unconscious form gliding through the air.  

He does not wait to watch, sprinting back toward the archway, but hears the leaves crunch beneath Leon’s weight as he falls.  

His magic never returns to him, reaching out, searching before Merlin wills it to. It’s a cool, bright thread he chases, his feet barely touching the stones beneath them as he runs to Arthur.  

When he stops, his awareness sharpens and every noise in the room is beyond clear, as if he were standing beside them already. The power swirls about his ankles, whipping around him like a whirlwind, gathering to him with ferocious speed and strength as he summons it, pulls it from deep within, from Morgause and Morgana and the very earth beneath the castle.

  He holds it as easily as a feather, molds it like clay with unparalleled determination. Morgause’s nefarious desires cannot begin to match the scope or depth of his feelings for Arthur.  

As he steps into the room, his attention divides sharply in half, his magic splitting into protection and annihilation in equal measure. He forms a wall an arm’s span thick around Arthur’s crouched, defensive stance and turns, blinking at the shell of charred remains smouldering on the flagstones.  

Startled that he cast so unconsciously, without even the dimmest awareness of the spell, Merlin stumbles back into the shield of light around Arthur, who takes a halting step backward as Merlin turns to face him.   

There is a sinking, draining moment when Merlin believes Arthur fears him, but as he lifts his hand to remove the barrier and speak, Arthur shakes his head slightly, eyes wide and focused on something over Merlin’s shoulder.   

Tiny flowers rain from a gaping hole in the ceiling above Morgause’s remains, coating the blackened corpse in a pall of downy petals.  

“Rosemary for remembrance,” Morgana whispers sadly from across the room, sliding slowly down the wall and pressing her cheek to the stones. Her hand reaches out to them, a cluster of the same fragrant sprigs between her long, delicate fingers. “Take them and forget what I became.”

  Merlin glances over his shoulder at Arthur, who stares, eyes full and sword tip lowered to the floor. As Merlin drops the wall of magic and frees him, they step together to Morgana’s side. Her eyes stare blankly at the flowers in her limp hand. Arthur reaches for her, but Merlin stops him with a hand on his arm.  

“She’s gone,” Arthur whispers, and Merlin nods, brushing his fingers down to close Morgana’s eyelids.

  

* * *

  They share Hengroen’s saddle on the way back to Camelot, riding apart from Leon, who seems to sense their need to be alone, but Merlin and Arthur do not speak for a long time.

  There are no words for what they’ve been through, Merlin supposes.  

He tightens his fists on Arthur’s tunic, shifting so close there can be no doubt between them. He wants to crawl inside Arthur and pull Arthur into him and never speak to another soul again, never lay eyes on another face, never feel another’s touch.  

“She harmed you,” Arthur mutters, turning his head as though he doesn’t know already that Merlin is listening closer than he ever has before.

  “Yes,” he admits, knowing he has nothing to hide, but proud enough that the words form hesitantly on his tongue. “She knew how to manipulate me.”  

“We are one another’s weakness in more ways than one,” Arthur says, but there is no mirth in his voice.  

“Arthur,” he begins, closing his eyes and laying his cheek against the stinging cool of chain mail, wrapping his arms around Arthur’s waist. “You shouldn’t have come for me.”  

Arthur’s gloved hand covers his own, their fingers lacing together. “Perhaps,” he says, lifting Merlin’s hand to press a kiss against his palm. Merlin can feel Arthur’s soft smile against his skin. “But on the other side of that coin, you hadn’t my permission to leave.”

  Merlin grins, the feeling a lightness he hadn’t expected to return to him, maybe ever. Somehow, he doesn’t think that was what Kilgharrah had meant all those years ago.  

He throws his head back, the thought of the dragon drawing his eyes skyward with a hope that fades as soon as it forms. He calls out with his mind, spreading his magic in a wide arch.   The soft clouds above part as they crest the next hill, sun streaming down and making him squint.  

There, crossing the brightness like a black raven, the Great Dragon circles away on an upward drift, wings outstretched and unmoving.

 

o _fin_ o


End file.
